Feelin' Fine, Ma
by InstigateInsanity
Summary: Sister story to Requiem. Nine years after the Sorceress War, Zell has a lot to think about. So he keeps a diary, and lets his memories do the talking.


**Saturday 12 March, Year of Hyne 3014**

**14:15 hours**

Someone told me once that keeping a diary was the best way to remember. Seems a mite stupid to me – what if I forget where I put the cursed thing? Won't help me in the slightest then, and that's a problem – when it comes to memories, SeeD are about the biggest bunch of no-hopers you're ever likely to meet. Funny, that.

Still, that's not really why I'm writing this. See, I remembered something the other day (har har) that struck me like a hammer blow – namely, that stupid online events calendar/journal that Selphie kept during the Sorceress War. We all paid her out something fierce for it, but there was barely a soul in the entire Garden who didn't write a few thoughts down in the forums. A lot of it was mindless exuberance – "Hey, yeah, let's go kill the stupid Sorceress!" – but what really got me was the amount of _anonymous_ messages being posted, and the unusually heavy subjects most of those notes dealt with.

I'll never forget Anonymous9244's message, not 'til the day I die. _"Can someone get in touch with the Del Toros, East Balamb? Their little girl Sahra's got about three hours left, and she wants to say bye."_ I knew Sahra Del Toro. The sweetest little girl you ever met, seven years old, had a mean roundhouse kick even then. I could tell she was gonna grow up into one tough lady.

I was her sensei.

And then, when her folks didn't show, I was her daddy. I held her hand, I whispered empty comforts to her in a hall filled with people screaming and moaning in pain. Hell, I even sang to her, all the old blues songs Da taught me when I was a kid. Well, for about half an hour, anyway, before the internal bleeding and perforated kidneys took their toll.

Oh, man.

Seems the life of a SeeD's fraught with hardships. Squall once told me they weren't hardships, they were pathways; one giant road network caught up in a neverending cosmic cycle, and they all have one thing in common – they all lead back to death. 'Course, he was pretty liquored up at the time, coz I couldn't see Squall talking that way normally.

The booze? Stress, mainly. Stress led to not sleeping, not sleeping led to more stress, stress led to drinking … we all saw the heart attack coming, I guess, just never thought it could actually happen. Not to Squall. We all thought he was invincible.

Irvine found him.

Everyone else dealt with it (or didn't, as the case mighta been) in their own ways. Rinoa left. Selphie's a wreck, Quistis went psycho, and Irvine? He's the same as ever, except when he sinks into his depressions. I caught him a year or two back when I visited Galbadia Garden – called on him for a card game and found him drinking whiskey and polishing his gun. Nothing very unusual about that, but there was something in his eyes …

I don't wanna get into that right now. I don't really wanna get into anything, come to think of it. There's just too much. I suppose in a way I've died, too – everything that made me Zell Dincht is gone. Quit SeeD, coz otherwise leaving to take care of Ma would be desertion. Cut off contact with most of my mates. Ain't cut down on my fighting, though. That's one part of Zell I'll take to the grave with me.

Take care of Ma, you say? Remember those cosmic pathways Squall talked about? The same principle seems to apply to me, coz two weeks ago, she was diagnosed with small cell lung cancer. It's metastasized (whatever that means) to her liver and spleen, and there's nothing they can do. No amount of potions, elixirs, or spells. She never even smoked.

Fuck, I wrote a lot today. I'm gonna stop before I go blind.

* * *

**Monday 14 March, Year of Hyne 3014**

**03:09 hours**

Don't'cha just love military discipline? Even after completely severing my ties with SeeD, I can't seem to stop writing everything in army time – twelve hour clocks confuse me all to hell now. Besides, twenty-four hour time is so much more useful – there's always only ever one set time of the day. It never comes around twice, and never leads me to confuse which of Ma's shots are which.

She got worse today. Doc Kadowaki came around (which was real nice of her coz she doesn't normally do house calls) and gave her a shot of morphine, then did a physical. True fact: apparently coughing up blood _isn't_ a sign of recovery. Funny, huh?

Her fingertips are clubbed, too, which the doc tells me means she's entering the final stages. "With radiation therapy, she might have a few months," she told me, wiping her hands on a towel. "She'll be uncomfortable, though, and it'll be painful no matter what."

"What if we don't do the therapy?"

"Then she's got a week left. Maybe nine days." She smiled sadly at me, then left.

So I've got until Friday at the earliest, Sunday or Monday at the latest. I should be crying right now, but it's as though I'm hollow. Empty. There's nothing in my head that even resembles sadness, and I just checked my eyes. They're dry as the fucking Kashkabald.

What the hell is wrong with me?

I don't suppose it'll come as any great surprise to anyone who knows my Ma, but she chose not to do the therapy. She's a strong lady, much stronger than I'll ever be, and she's a hell of a fighter. Not a martial artist, you understand; no, in her own way, she's way more skilled than I'll ever be. At least she won't be alone when she goes.

I got something in my eye. Gotta go.

* * *

**Wednesday 16 March, Year of Hyne 3014**

**00:13 hours**

Can't sleep. Need to write this down.

I don't really see much of the old gang anymore. It's sad, truth be told – we made such a great team during the Sorceress War. And afterward it was only more of the same – late night chats between friends, a card game here or there, and the most amazing thing ever – a trip to Deling City with an all expenses paid cashcard for my twenty-first birthday. I know you wouldn't believe me if I told ya that Squall footed the bill entirely, so I won't say it.

Doesn't make it any less the truth.

But then he died, and everything went to hell. I see no real need to repeat shit I've already said, besides which – I'm basically talking to myself here, right? Anyone who dares try to read this thing without my permission's gonna find themselves short a hand.

Those of you with sticky fingers, you've been warned.

But yeah, it's all gone bad. So you can imagine my surprise when I heard someone thumping like a psycho on the door, demanding to be let in. the words were slurred, but I'd recognize that rustic twang anywhere.

Irvine's one of the only ones I've stayed good friends with since Squall's death, and he sounded absolutely sloshed, so who was I not to let him in? I thought for a moment I'd made a horrible mistake – there was something black in his eyes, and he looked so much like Seifer at the height of his brainwashing that I thought he was gonna kill me.

"Can I come in?" he asked, and the emptiness in his voice just about had me screaming. But I stood aside, let him come in. it was pissing down with rain outside, and he'd been drinking, so when he sat down at our kitchen table I could practically _hear_ the wood beginning to rot.

I said nothing, though. The poor sod was supposed to be in Galbadia – he normally let me know well in advance if he was going on leave – so this could only be desertion. But there were some things that didn't make sense. Where was Selphie, for Hyne's sweet sake?

"Ya know what night it is?" he asked.

I shook my head.

"Ya should. Ya found me in m'quarters, a year ago tonight. Remember that?"

_Drinking whiskey and polishing his gun._ Oh yeah, I remembered that night.

Irvine laughed hollowly. "S' the day my ole Mama died, thass wha' day it is." He reached into his coat, pulled out a bottle. I recognized the brew. It was the stuff sold by old Tate down near the docks, pure Balambii moonshine. A half glass of that liquid devil piss is enough to get me drunker than a Deling City hobo, and I can drink most people under the table. Almost half the bottle was gone.

I said nothing.

Irvine uncorked the vile brew, knocking it back straight from the bottle. "Bin visitin' her grave ou' near Winhill fer twenty-two year now, I have, ever since she died. What was the point o' diggin her grave out there? Weren't even a half hour walk ter Deling when I was a kid." Gods, he was drunker than I thought he was. His accent was _never_ this thick when he was sober. "Matron use ter git some old geezer mate o' hers ter take me, when I were in th' orph – orphan – orph'nige. He was one o' Martine's mates. Thass how I came ter Garden, ya know." He smiled. I've never seen such a bitter expression. "This year I jus' happened ter take Sefie 'long."

"Irvine," I said quietly, "aren't you supposed to be at Galbadia Garden?"

He looked at his watch, then shook his head. "Nah. Not fer 'nother … two hours, by th' look o' thangs." He tipped the bottle back again. White tequila dribbled down his chin, splattering onto his coat. I hoped he wasn't junctioned to any fire Guardians; at that moment, he'd have been more flammable than the Sun.

"Irvine, they're gonna come looking for you."

He nodded. "I know. I jus' … I just cain't stand this shit anymore, Zell. I had a good ole chat with Mama jus' a few hours ago, an' it taught me a few thing 'bout myself. I hate Garden. I miss the ole days, when we was fightin' togethah, but I don't wanna kill no more. I'm a rotten godsdamned coward an' I'm draggin' Sefie down with me." He grinned crookedly up at me. "I'm tired, Zell. I made promises, but I don't wanna keep 'em. There're lotta miles left ter go, but all I wanna do is sleep. I'm tired a' walkin'."

I stared at him, then took the bottle and had a good swig myself.

"What are you gonna do?" I asked, once the burn wore off. My head was buzzing, but it wasn't a pleasant feeling.

"I cain't go back ter that, Zell. I cain't even step inter the buildin' without feelin' sick no more. They wanna dishonourably discharge me, that's fine. But I'm done with SeeD."

He sounded chillingly sober.

"I'm gonna go out ter Galbadia, find me a little patch of nowhere," he continued. "Build myself a cottage, mayhap do a little hunting. Perhaps it'll be by the seaside, so's I kin do a little fishing whenever I git a hanker-on. Sounds right nice ter me."

He stood up, pausing long enough to light a cigarette. For the life of me I couldn't figure out how they stayed dry in the downpour outside. "Thanks fer the palaver, Zell," he said, that crooked grin still firmly in place. He reached out, shook my hand, and left in a cloud of smoke. The shine bottle sat on the table.

I don't think I'll be seeing him anymore, somehow.

* * *

**Friday 18 March, Year of Hyne 3014**

**13:44 hours**

Ya know how sometimes everything doesn't seem real? I'm sitting at the small lookout over the Dolletian Sea as I write this, and it's the most beautiful sight I've ever seen – there's seagulls everywhere, blazing through the sky as though they got no worries in the world. Sometimes I wish I was one of them – I want to open my wings and fly, soar above the world, lose myself in the chaos of a thousand bodies and faces I've never seen before.

From my vantage point there's a wide expanse of amazingly green savannah, which ends in dunes two miles away. And beyond that, seemingly stretching off for forever, lies the sea. It's beautiful, a deep, rich blue (what my Ma calls cerulean), and I never tire of taking our small yacht out when I get the chance. I used to love annual leave when I was in Garden; there's nothing like sailing at twilight, with the last rays of sunlight still flecking the sky.

My house is five blocks and three turns away. I've walked these streets my entire life, I know them like the back of my hand. Now I walk them and I see a strange land, a world of sharp colours and painful architecture. People I've known my entire life seem distant and cold to me, though they greet me with friendly handshakes and twinkles in their eyes.

I couldn't wake Ma up this morning. I tried to – she's got a few pills she's gotta take in the morning, and if she don't take them the pain really gets her bad – but she wouldn't wake up. most people might've got a bit worried, but not me. I smiled; me and her always did have our little jokes we liked to play. So, playing along, I searched for a pulse, as I'd been taught to in medic classes. I couldn't find one. No matter; I'm sure it'll be back when I get home.

All part of the game, you see.

So I'm gonna finish up here. Groceries waiting to be bought, after all, but there's no rush. The sun's shining, birds are singing, and I'm feelin' fine, Ma, ain't it great to be alive?

* * *

-

* * *

**Author Notes:** That's `just about the heaviest subject matter I've ever dealt with. Writing this kind of story really opens your eyes.

Some people are probably wondering about the bizarre transition from the almost casual style of writing at the beginning (slang and abbreviation abounding, etc) to the serious, heavy style later on. Seems like a natural transition to me - Zell has a playful, laid-back nature, but he's capable of serious thought when the situation requires it. Remember the SeeD field exam?

By the way, did anyone catch the Robert Frost reference?


End file.
